Burnt Ravings
by CleverGirl1013
Summary: One Shot with a rambling OC/ Based off of TDKR. Rated T for references/brief scenes of violence- nothing graphic. "And for a moment- just one, idiotic, insignificant, fleeting moment- I feel a laugh threaten to bubble up my through my chest. The type of laugh that isn't meant for anything humorous at all, but rather for the pure insanity of simply knowing".


_Hello! Thanks for your interest- hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it :)_  
 _Disclaimer at the end to avoid (sort of) spoilers!_  
 _And here, we,_ _ **go**_ _!_

* * *

 _Do not go gentle into that good night_

* * *

I was never one to 'put up my dukes'.

If anything I try to avoid conflict as circuitously as possible, domestic or otherwise. And if it weren't for the pure _fire_ , the constant presence of animosity towards the unwarranted abuse, the complete _bafflement_ of the situation- fear would not hesitate to take hold with an icy grip and consume me until there was nothing left but echoes of a sordid past life and whispered screams.

Why I was taken so abruptly from my life, tainted by trivial pursuits of normalcy and promised security, remains unknown. It is only out of pure stubbornness that I have resolved to survive, to meet my inconsequential fate with deadly clawing fingers and wildly gnashing teeth.

Consequences be dammed.

I will not succumb to the luring promise of death without getting any answers, even as horrifying and unpromising as some of the English-speaking soldiers alluded to in fragmented sentences and knowing smirks.

Am I really worth all the trouble?

I would voice my concerns if only they didn't fall on deaf ears.

* * *

I had screamed.

Screamed until my lungs felt as if they were about to collapse from the inevitable strain.

My fervent, manic kicking has indefinitely stilled once my efforts were rewarded with a few too many well-placed blows to the lower abdomen.

With the repetition of jarring, barbarous slaps against my cheekbones having resulted in a smattering of unflattering welts framing my face- I am left as a separate entity.

An unrecognizable bruise, battered and bloodied from enduring weeks on rough terrain and physical abuse I had never before encountered.

Would my own mother recognize me?

Wait-no, no.

She's gone. They're all _gone_.

Lost? Left? Dead?

I suppose it doesn't really matter now.

I'm all three.

* * *

Well, I have company at least.

A myriad of perfectly well-mannered, gorilla soldiers to accompany me during my stay makes the unexpected road trip all the more,...exciting.

A middle-aged soldier with a penchant for imbibing in nefarious quantities of alcohol has made it a game to see how many times in a day he can spark a wild enough reaction from me, just as a bare enough excuse to elicit a broken rib or two as punishment.

This time he decides to aim for my lower abdomen in response to a slew of descriptive verbal assaults I had thrown in his genuinely unpleasant demeanor.

My stomach lurches. I gag and heave nothingness, my throat raw and aching- was that blood? I'm oddly content with the knowledge that there's nothing left to dispel- any remnants of food having been broken down and sweated out days ago. I settle for spitting in his face, grim satisfaction seeping into my bones as I take in his horrified expression.

A bloody bottom lip for that one.

* * *

We've been walking for an innumerable amount of miles in this- the arid desert from Hell. The only possible calculation of time measured by the strength in which the arches of my feet are aching and blistering, the frayed rope around my wrists gnawing angrily at the raw flesh in reddened indentations.

Out of pure boredom I begin to hum a nonsensical tune, in which I shortly find my fingers burning to try out this new configuration on the promise of ivory keys, cool to the touch.

None of the other soldiers surrounding me seem to pay much attention to my existence, as if they're artificial intelligence programmed to walk for eternity, and I had _just_ been unfortunate enough to get caught in between their routine.

Their posture was rigid, guns either in hand or leisurely clanking against their sides, hanging lackadaisically from belted loops. Their stoic expressions rivaled those of the Queen's guards at Buckingham Palace, and I couldn't help but inwardly sigh at the comparison.

I miss signs of life.

The oxygenated trees of England now a distant dream as dead as the air I'm breathing.

I've always dreamed of a more exciting life than what the urban city could offer me. Those stars that shone so brightly that I was fastidiously blinded.

And yet again that nagging old adage flits across my mind for the briefest of moments;  
 _Beggars can't be choosers_.

I miss home.

* * *

I cannot see much of anything, my eyes have given up on trying to focus on an objective hours ago. There is nothing save for a dusty, blurred line on the horizon, the sun baked earth a curious burnt umber that stretches out for miles on end.

It reminds me of a clay in primary school, the less expensive kind that is given to the students who have some semblance of sense to _not_ try and ingest the proffered minerals.  
Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Nature and her ironic, twisted way of expressing herself;

An amorphous, misshapen blob of clay. An embodiment of endless possibilities swirling and colliding with one another, just waiting for the creator to pluck one from the air and breathe life into it.

An endless road of compacted dirt, solidified in its path of unchanging conformity. A lackluster harbinger of misery and contempt for what could have been.

And here I walk towards placid uncertainty, perhaps death?

Should I be relieved? Maybe the pain would be merciful and finally leave me alone.

My fate is already decided. Yet I continue this internal rebellion, masochistically.

I should give up.

Give in.

Let go.

I glare at the gentle wind as it brushes against my hollowed cheeks. What would be welcomed relief from the scorching heat is tainted by the unbearable humidity. The warm breeze encircles me in waves, blanketing me in light brush strokes which leave my skin to settle in clammy perspiration. This blanket which drags me-  
down,  
down,  
down  
-growing in strength and vigor as I weaken and writhe.

* * *

Where does this end?

There is no freedom- white and pure and accessible. There is no simple solution, no miraculous performance of a cinematic maneuver to ensure a harrowing escape with a dramatic flourish.

There _is_ sun and fire. The same colour of the of blood which encrusted itself in blotchy patches on my arms and legs. The colour responsible for the metallic tang that swirls in my mouth and makes my head spin when I lick my cracked, bloodied lips.

I've seen black and blue- pride and hatred. The aching bruises which litter my body from head to feet in display of the trials of captivity and an impulsive tongue.

* * *

An enlarged crevice can now be seen in the earth as we near a hole stretching as far and deep as the Devil's Palace itself. A series of buildings several stories high loom in the distance mockingly, looking as if they were erected directly from the very earth which surrounds their barriers. As if it happened naturally, without man's tainted interference.

A fortress surrounding a pit,...a pit meant for people like me.

The damned.

And for a moment- just one, idiotic, insignificant, fleeting moment- I feel a laugh threaten to bubble up my through my chest.

The type of laugh that isn't meant for anything humorous at all, but rather for the pure insanity of simply _knowing_.

This ended in death.

And as I look around at my emotionless escorts and the reflection of light glinting off of their metallic weapons, feel the sun slowly bake off my skin and the ache of fractured bones-  
I know. I _know_.

It will be mine.

* * *

 _Old age should burn and rave at close of day,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light!_

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Thank you so much for reading! This is just a little one shot as a homage to TDKR. I have always loved the idea of the Pit and was curious as to what I could come up with :). It's all a bit random and doesn't make a lick of sense I suppose, but that's the fun of it! So, uhm, yeah. Diagnosis? Good? Bad? An utter bore? Let me know, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!_

 _Disclaimer as promised: OC POV is ambiguous and original with no intent to copyright DC (or any) character. Concept of the Pit goes to the majestic Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer. Title (inspired), first line and last two italicized lines were taken from the first stanza of Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night (one of my favourite poems in which I garnered my inspiration for this little tidbit)._

 _Cheers!_


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